


Hats and Caps

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair's a little upset?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hats and Caps

## Hats and Caps

by manic

First time story from me. Was going for angst, but this just popped out the noggen.

* * *

I look like a goddamn Nazi. 

Maybe that's a little harsh, thought Blair as he stared at his reflection. Lets take inventory, he thought. 

Boots-polished. 

Clothes-pressed. 

Hat-on. At the regulation angle and all that. 

Fuck. 

A short, long-haired, neo-hippie, witch-doctor, punk, hair in a ponytail, dressed to the nines about to be a cop, Jewish Nazi. 

OK, Blair mumbled to himself, I made it through the Academy, I made it across the obstacle course, so I can make it through the ceremony. I can wear this uniform. 

I can do this. There's a pot of gold at this proverbial rainbow of shit colored blue. I can be Jim's partner. 

So what have I been doing for four years? Sitting in the truck? Not I, said Blair, since I haven't been Jim's partner I've been shot at, been shot, kidnapped, jumped out of a plane and oh yeah, declared dead. 

This in an unofficial capacity. Who knew how the mayhem would increase now that he had a fucking badge to do his job. 

And it hadn't cost him much. 

Just his entire career. 

This can't be it. 

What was it he heard once? Nice Jewish boys don't join the Marines? Well, Blair Sandburgs don't join the police force. 

Oh.   
OK. This I can definitely do, Blair mumbled as he stripped out the uniform, tossed the hat into the bathroom sink and stalked to his room to change into something nice and warm and not polyester weave. 

Preferably flannel. 

Blair crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a beer and sat on the couch. 

Waiting. 

Waiting for Jim. 

To come home. 

To tell him. 

Won't that be fun? 

Life, Jim Ellison, thought, was looking up. The evil walking appliance was gone, the physical therapy was over and tomorrow... 

Well, tomorrow he'd see Blair graduate. Granted not in a gown and one of those funny looking hats they gave to PhDs. No, tomorrow he'd see Blair graduate in a uniform and an equally funny looking hat. From the police academy. 

Blair in a uniform. The very thought made Jim smile as he drove the truck down Prospect and started searching for parking. 

And the hat. The last few months of hell had been worth it just to see Blair in that cap. Even the fact that the elevator was broken and he had to climb up three flights of stairs to the apartment didn't dampen Jim's good humor. 

Entering the loft with a casual "hey Chief" on his way to the bathroom, Jim was still pretty much preoccupied with his own internal laugh track to really notice the sink. 

But that's why they pay him the big bucks. Observational skills and all that. In the sink, the very one he'd cleaned that morning, was a police cap. And it was... Floating. Sort of. Actually it looked like it had been drowned. So it wasn't really floating. It was more like it was listing. In water. 

Jesus. Thought Jim. What was it with Sandburg and water? He plucked the cap out of the water, grabbed a towel, smothered the thing and carried the entire package out to talk to his roommate, who had obviously gone nuts, because he had just drowned a perfectly innocent cap. 

"Chief?" 

"Jim." 

"Um, Chief?" 

"Me Chief, you Jim. Aren't we beyond monosyllabic sentences here Jim?" 

"This is my hat." 

"Nope." 

"Let me rephrase that Sandburg," said Jim as he crossed to the couch, "This better be my hat because you have to wear yours tomorrow and this poor head covering has suffered some untimely death, so while I can go without head cover tomorrow, you'll need yours so as not to look out of place among all the other grads." 

"Nope." 

Jim moved a coaster and placed the damp, dripping towel, shrouded cap on the coaster on the table because, well, because table rings sucked. Then he sat down upon the couch so he could look the self confessed hat mutilator in the eye. 

Gotta love those police interrogation techniques. 

"Sandburg," said Jim, as he looked at the perpetrator. Who looked anything but guilty. Who was in fact looking kinda amused. In an I have a higher IQ than you and you are SO going to lose this debate look. 

"Jim." Said the flannel covered Sandburg, who then took another sip of the beer he had in his hand. 

Beer. 

Blair drinking the beer. 

All of Jim's much valued interrogation techniques pretty much went out the window as he watched Sandburg's throat ripple as he swallowed the beer. And Blair's throat tip back as he went for yet another drink, lips around the mouth of the bottle, that bead of moisture at the corner of said hat killer's mouth and that throat, lined with a 5 o'clock shadow, because Sandburg had an abundance of hair. Unlike Jim. Who fell into that politically correct term of being follically challenged. That throat which led to the neck of a very worn and very soft tee-shirt. From the neck of the previously mentioned soft and worn shirt, Sentinel sight was much better when coveting a Sandburgian form, from which emerged just a few of those hairs that covered Sandburg's chest. 

Ummmm. Good thing Sandburg was one of the good guys because Jim knew he wouldn't get anywhere with Blair in any sort of adversarial position. Although, Jim thought, he could think of a few positions he'd like to get Sandburg in. 

Jim lifted his eyes to see Sandburg sort of grinning like he knew what Jim was thinking as he tilted the bottle to finish off the beer and then slowly, like he knew Jim was tracking him, placed the bottle between his thighs on the couch. 

All of this Jim followed. With his eyes. So it took him like an instant to realize that he was staring at Sandburg's jean covered crotch with an empty beer bottle sticking up from between his thighs. 

"So, Jim." began Blair 

"Ummm?" 

"Jim." 

"Sandburg." 

Ah. The familar modes of address were back. As were Jim's eyes. Sort of. They kept drifting. Down. Jim's eyes kept drifting down. To the beer bottle between his legs. Well, this was a new development. Or an old one. It bothered Blair that he really didn't know when this began. This Jim looking at his crotch thing. Because it had been awhile since he'd actually observed Jim. 

And right now he was observing a Sentinel who seemed like he'd become suddenly fascinated with the beer bottle protruding from Blair's thighs. And Blair wondered if all that talk about beer from bottles tasting better than beer from cans was just so much Jim fabricated bullshit and more an excuse to watch Blair. Because while Blair had been observing Jim, Jim had obviously been watching Blair, and Jim had the advantage, because while he, Blair, had been cursed with the need for glasses since like birth, Jim, he of the superior senses, could see really really well. 

And right now those really sensitive eyes kept drifting down. And Jim, was Jim like licking his lip? Like there was suddenly sweat on it? Like Jim was all hot and bothered. 

And Blair wished he hadn't been such a good student all his life. 

Because that class in interrogation techniques kept coming back. The one fact pushed to the class was use everything at your disposal. 

And Blair was going to have to use this. 

He really didn't have a choice. 

"So..." 

And Blair had to like smile. Just a little one, that didn't really reach his mouth, because Jim had like abandoned the conversation in favor of his crotch. 

So Blair tried again. 

"Jim," this time accompanying the query with a well place strategic hand on Jim's shoulder. 

Well that worked, thought Blair. Jim had sort of jumped up and back and flew to the other end of the couch, stopped only by the arm and was now looking at Blair's face with a sort of trapped, deer or panther in the headlights look that really made him look, well, cute. In an "I'm a heterosexual guy looking at my male roommate's crotch look." Blair resolved to drink beer on the couch more often. That or see what other objects made Jim look at his crotch. Because an off balance Jim really put him at the advantage. Blair thought as he pressed on. 

"You were saying something about my hat?" 

"Hat?" 

This was good. Jim had like forgotten the entire conversation. 

"The dead hat" Blair elaborated as he pointed his hand vaguely in the direction of the sodden towel and watched as Jim tracked not to the hat but more like Blair's arm as he waved it about. 

Shit, thought Blair, I've been a shitty observer. So just for grins, he moved his hand up and to his shoulder blade and gave it a scratch. Yip. There went Jim's eyes. And yet more sweat on the upper lip. 

And, Blair moved his other arm to join the first as he moved them both above his head and stretched. 

And watched as Jim's ever observant eyes moved not to his arms as had been expected, but more to Blair's stomach, made harder by those fucking sit-ups he had to do at the Academy and the gap now created by the stretch and the band of skin that now showed between the hem of Blair's tee-shirt and his jeans. 

Although Blair couldn't really see the gap between his shirt and jeans. From his perspective, Jim was staring at his crotch. Again. 

This was getting good. 

Blair moved his arms down, not missing the vaguely disappointed look that crossed Jim's face or the sweat dotting his upper lip rested one arm along the back of the sofa and one on the beer bottle. 

Just to see what would happen.  
Shit. I'm fucking staring at Sandburg. Thought Jim. Get real Ellison. You're staring at Sandburg's crotch. Or his skin. Covered in that really soft looking hair. That was all over his body. 

And then he sort of noticed that his hand and Sandburg's hand were inches from each other. That if he stretched his fingertips a millimeter, their fingertips would meet. 

Sounded pretty good. 

So Jim just twitched his fingertips a fraction of an inch and all of a sudden he and Blair were touching. 

Or Not. 

It really wasn't noticeable to anyone. But than most people didn't have a sense of touch like Jim had. Thank god for that. 

Because Jim was thinking, if just fingertips do this, wonder what would happen if I moved my other hand under Sandburg's shirt. 

To all that hair he couldn't see anymore. Much to his dismay. Except for like a few stray bits that poked out of Sandburg's shirt. 

And that wasn't enough. 

Not nearly. 

So Jim moved. 

The hand that wasn't just barely touching Sandburg's went for Blair's other hand. Which up until the point Jim's hand touched his, was kind of fondling that beer bottle. 

So Jim, wrapped his hand around Blair's and gripped the beer bottle. And as he did that he slid closer to Blair and his other hand moved up Blair's arm until he and Blair were really close and Jim had one hand on Blair's flannel covered shoulder and one on Blair's beer bottle. 

Empty beer bottle. 

Empty dry beer bottle. 

So Jim took the beer bottle and Blair's hand came with it and both hands put the bottle on the table. Which was really wet now, because its not like one little coaster was going to stop the towel from sweating on the table. 

And Jim just stopped for an instant, because he realized, in a moment of self enlightenment, although not as mystical Buddha under the tree, but still fairly profound in that sort of zingy way that happens when you know something might happen, that something was going to happen. 

And Jim licked the sweat off his lip again. 

And Sandburg, because the guy was incapable of staying silent, took the opportunity to quip: 

"Just a little hot Jim?" 

"No" Jim heard himself ground out. "I'm a lot fucking hot." 

Blair watched in amazement as his previously thought of assassin chasing tall red headed loving heterosexual roommate while keeping one hand on his shoulder, like Blair would bolt, as if, let go of his hand, the beer bottle and proceeded to move to his chest and started tracing patterns on his chest with his fingertips while moving his head to Blair's neck and start sniffing. 

And licking. 

His neck. 

Jim Ellison was licking Blair Sandburg's neck. 

And his hand. 

Well... 

His hand had moved under his tee-shirt and was moving from his belly to his chest while Blair moved his hands to Jim's side and back sliding under Jim's shirt and up and up that smooth expanse of a muscled back. 

And Jim's back was really smooth. And hot. And Blair didn't have the advantage of Sentinel sight. And he wasn't wearing his glasses. So things really needed to be close up for Blair to see it. 

And Blair really didn't need to be a Sentinel to feel how hot Jim was. And hot he was. Maybe that second layer of clothing wasn't necessary. The way things were going, dead hats and visions of boys in blue aside, any clothing was soon going to become a hinderance. 

And wasn't Blair the Guide. 

So hey, thought Blair. Lets guide the idiot. 

"Jim." 

Jim just grunted against Blair's neck and moved to capture an ear. With his teeth. 

Just a little nibble. 

Because Blair tasted like fucking ambrosia. Or a really cool beer. Jim didn't really have a comparison. So he settled on Blair. 

Yum. Yet again another good use for Sentinel senses. Tasting Blair. And Jim could smell it. Them. He could fucking smell the arousal on both himself and Blair. And it wasn't a distraction, it wasn't annoying. It was just good. 

And he could feel Blair's hands on his back. The calluses on the tips of his fingers. That roughness against his skin. As Blair moved his hands up his back and down again to the hem of his shirt and grasped it and pulled and tugged and suddenly he wasn't touching Blair anymore. 

He was looking at Blair. 

Who had his shirt in his hands. 

And Jim could feel the goose bumps that broke out on his skin, but he wasn't cold. He was still fucking hot. 

And Sandburg. That smug shit knew it. 

Because he was grinning. Or smirking. And Jim couldn't help grinning back. At Blair. Who had his shirt in his hands. 

Shit. He looks like a predator. 

He is a predator, who was like nibbling on me a minute ago and is now kneeling on the couch with no shirt on, because Sandburg, you schmuk, Blair thought to himself, you just pulled it off. 

Jim's shirt. 

And Blair felt like yelling 'Toro! Toro!' because that's how he was holding it. Jim's shirt, like a matador. 

"Jim" 

And said shirtless roommate proceeded to move both his hands to the hem of Blair's tee-shirt and remove both of Blair's shirts at once taking his own shirt with them and tossing all of them into some unknown corner of the loft. And who the fuck cared because Jim was now straddling Blair on the couch while moving those fingers up his sides while moving his mouth to Blair's. 

Shit. 

In all those years of observations, Blair had never really thought about what Jim kissing him would feel like. 

OK. That was a lie. Because otherwise there was no way he'd be kissing Jim now. But the reality of the kiss, it was like sex in and of itself. Blair just knew he could come just from Jim kissing him. Because Jim had kind of moved on top of him and was carding his hands through Blair's hair and holding the sides of his head while just going to town on his mouth. 

And Blair could blame the fact that Jim was really big because he was really having trouble breathing and his dick just seemed to be soaking through the cotton of his jeans and he could feel how hard he was and how hard Jim was. 

Jesh. Jim was like really hard.  
And just as sudden pressure, Jim, eased off of Blair as Jim kind of lifted himself off of Blair and began moving down Blair's chest with his mouth and hands and Blair just lost track of Jim because Jim's tongue was now dipping in and out of his belly button and Jim's hands were on the waistband of his jeans undoing the button and Jim was tracing his erection through his jeans. With his mouth. 

And suddenly he was cold. Actually there was this blast of arctic air as Jim did one of those commando pushups and was suddenly standing beside Blair on the couch. Blair, who really felt like he was just a horny pile of mess while Jim was standing beside him with his dick looking like it wanted to poke through those chinos Jim was wearing. 

And then Blair looked. Well sort of. Because allowing for sexual frustration and general blindness, things were a little fuzzy, but Blair did realize that Jim was toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his pants and heading up the fucking stairs. 

While he, Blair was still on the fucking couch. Unfucked as fate might have it. 

"Jim?" Ok the voice still worked. Everything else seemed to have gone south. 

"Back in a second, Chief, do something constructive and get out of those jeans? Ok?" 

Blair wasn't sure what the hell Jim was talking about, but hey. Interrogation techniques, keep the subject off guard. Blair just knew he wasn't going to follow some bizarre Ellison manual so he just lay there. Tracing his cock with his fingertips. 

He looked up as this shadow appeared above him. This naked guy, who had a strong resemblance to his previously thought to be heterosexual roommate. 

Man, what a shitty observer he turned out to be, going to have to rethink that whole dissertation, that whole thing. But Blair didn't really give it much thought because all he really saw, from his position of lying on the couch and stroking his dick was Jim's hand come down on top of his and start stroking his dick with him. Through his jeans. 

And Jim was naked. And was kind of sitting on the couch. And Blair was sure this broke some major house rule but didn't really care because although Jim had stopped stroking his dick, Jim was using both hands to pull Blair's jeans and boxers off and they too went flying through the loft. 

Get Jim hot and bothered and house rules go out the window. Blair thought. Going to have to remember that. But Blair wasn't really up to remembering anything because Jim was back to straddling his legs and was now touching his bare dick. 

"Ohhh" 

And licking. His throat. Again. And Jim was kind of scrunched down and the only part of Jim that Blair could touch was that hair. Which was a lot longer than it used to be. And all Blair could do was stroke and grab Jim's hair because Jim. 

Jim was like. 

Jesus. 

His dick was somewhere in the nether regions of Jim's throat and Jim was like sucking and his throat was doing something and all Blair could do was buck and moan and grab at Jim's hair as Jim just went for it. 

And Blair could feel Jim's breath on his dick and Jim's tongue and everything. And all he could do was grab and move and moan. 

So, hey, Blair went with the flow. 

Because while nothing compared to Jim kissing him, Jim going for it, going down on him was while not a close second was in the fucking stratosphere. And Blair wasn't sure if that made any sense, but right now his brain felt like it was being sucked out of his dick. By Jim Ellison. Who obviously knew a whole fucking lot about sucking dick. Because one Jim's hands was yet again carding up his chest and toying with his nipple. So Jim was like sucking and pulling and all Blair could do was just moan and it got louder until all Blair could feel was Jim's mouth on his dick which was just twitching and his hips which were like jerking and his nipple which was like on fire and Blair was now so fucking hot and sweating and he could feel the sweat on Jim's scalp and then there was nothing but his dick and Jim's mouth and God was he coming. 

And Jim just took it. Swallowed it. Swallowed him up and Blair was still twitching and Jim was licking up and down his dick and his balls and lower. 

And for all his movement, Blair just had to stop when Jim's tongue went there. 

Oh God. 

And then Jim like stopped. 

"What Jim, is this one of those torture techniques they taught you in the Rangers?" 

"Turn over Chief." 

And Blair didn't really know Jim's voice could sound like that. Soft and Hard. And dripping. OK. That was Jim's dick, but that voice, so filled with, what, Blair didn't know but there was that whole go with the flow thing, so he did. 

He rolled over and put his head in his arms and just waited. 

And just when he thought that the whole thing had been some bizarre beer induced fantasy Jim's tongue was back. 

On the back of his neck. And Jim was back into that whole nibbling licking thing that just made Blair shake. 

And Blair was sure he was not getting enough air because he was really breathing hard and Jim, Jim was still hard. Because Blair could still feel the tip of Jim's dick every once in awhile. Just brushing against his thigh. And the bottom of his ass, leaving a trail of sticky cool wetness wherever it brushed against Blair. And Blair couldn't get enough. And he started pushing up against Jim. Trying to trap Jim and Jim's extremely hard dick between their bodies. But as Blair was slowly realizing, somewhere along the line he'd lost like all control of this particular situation so he just continued to pulse against the couch. Jim was now licking the middle of his back and Blair could just feel it. He was getting hard again. 

Cool. Sex with Jim and my body responds like a 16 year old again. Viva youth! But just as this thought went through Blair's head it like exited over the moons of Saturn because Jim and Jim's amazingly talented tongue were now lapping at his ass and right fucking there. 

"Ohhh." 

And at some point Blair resolved that he probably sounded like a moron but Jim was now licking and sucking around his hole and dipping into his ass and Blair had to hand it to Jim. Not only could he give head, but lo and behold the guy was fucking multi-talented. And Blair realized his cock was yet again at full mast, he was having trouble breathing and Jim, Jim was pushing his tongue in and out and squeezing his ass and every once in awhile Blair could feel just the edges of Jim's teeth around his asshole and it was like he was on fire. 

"Jim" 

"Shit!" 

And all of a sudden, it was cold, cold liquid goopy where before there had been only heat, and then it was warming up and it was smooth and it was mixing with the wet seeping from Jim and Blair could feel Jim's sweat dripping onto his back. 

Oh yeah. He could also feel Jim pressing into him with this exquisite slowness that Blair could totally get into. 

And Jim went with Blair. Blair controlled it. He was the guide? Right? 

And Blair could feel Jim pausing, asking if he could go on and all Blair could do was nod and say 

"Slow." 

And it was. Blair felt like time had stopped, or expanded but he really couldn't get into the metaphysical ramifications of the space/time continuum because he could feel Jim moving slowly into him and then he could feel Jim's balls against his ass and Jim was all the way inside him. 

So Blair said the one thing he could. 

"Wait." 

And Blair could feel Jim shaking and sweating and wow was Jim big because he was back to that licking the neck thing. 

"Slow Ok?" 

And Blair swore he could feel Jim smile behind him, the change in shape of those lips pressed to the back of his neck as Jim moved slowly in and out of him. 

Jim Ellison was moving in and out of him. 

And the sweat coming off his body was like hot rain on Blair and Blair was feeling every pulse down to the tip of his dick which was rubbing up and down the sofa and Jim was moving in him. And there. 

God Jim was like constantly brushing against his prostate and Blair was coming all over the couch and Jim was just going on and then he went deep and stopped and Blair could feel the heat from Jim just pulsing into him and that just set off all these after shocks in Blair which he could feel to the tips of his toes. 

And Jim was kissing his shoulder and pulling out as gently as he went in and just like nuzzling his neck. 

And then they were kind of squirming against each other and Blair was soon lying against the back of the couch and Jim was just barely on the couch and then they were back to that kissing thing. 

And it wasn't really rocket science. 

Just felt really cosmic. 

And when they finally broke for air, Jim just looked at Blair and said 

"Well, Um." 

"Well, Um?" 

"Chief, we keep doing this, we can't be partners at work, I mean regulations and all that?" 

"Jim, remember the dead hat? We'll work on the alternatives later man." 

So they did 

-end- 

* * *

End Hats and Caps by manic: manic1066@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
